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One Woman's Life, a novel by Robert Herrick |
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Part Two. Getting Married - Chapter 9. Milly In Love |
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_ PART TWO. GETTING MARRIED CHAPTER IX. MILLY IN LOVE The next meeting was not farther off than the next noon. They lunched together, to talk further of their collaboration, and from luncheon went to the Art Institute to see the pictures, most of which Bragdon disposed off condescendingly as "old-style stuff." Milly, who had been taught to reverence this selection of masterpieces, which were the local admiration, learned that there were realms beyond her ken. The next day saw another meeting and the next yet another. Then there was an intermission--Bragdon had to finish some work--and Milly felt restless. But there ensued ten delicious days of music and beer-gardens and walks in the parks, luncheons and suppers,--one starry Sunday spent scrambling among the ravines on the north shore and picnicking on the sandy beach, listening to the sadly soothing sweetness of Omar--(yes, they read Omar in those days, the young did!)--with little opalescent waves twinkling at their feet. Milly never paused to think one moment of all those ten precious days. She was blissfully content with the world as it was, except when she was at home, and then she was plotting skilfully "another occasion." If she had stopped to think, she would have murmured to herself, "At last! This must be the real, right thing!" He was so handsome, so full of strong male youth and joy, of large hopes and careless intentions, and he was also exotic to Milly,--a bit of that older, more complex civilization she had always longed for in her prairie limitations. His horizon had been broader than hers, she felt, though he was a mere boy in worldly knowledge. He even dressed differently from the men she knew, with a dash of daring color in waistcoat and ties that proclaimed the budding artist. And above all he embodied the Romance of Art,--that fatal lure for aspiring womankind. The sphere of creation is hermaphroditic: he too was fine and feminine, unlike the coarser types of men. He craved Reputation and would have it, Milly assured him confidently. She was immediately convinced of his high talent. Alas! She sighed when she said it, for she knew that his gifts would quickly waft him beyond her reach on his upward way. Chicago could not hold one like him long: he was for other, beautifuller ports of destiny! * * * * * At four forty-five on the afternoon of September first,--a Monday,--a tall, somewhat nervous man rang the bell of 31 East Acacia Street and inquired for Miss Ridge. He came in and waited when he learned from the little old lady who opened the door that Milly was not at home. He waited in the small front room, sombrely darkened, where the tragedy of Milly's first engagement ring had taken place,--waited until six forty-five, then at the signs of preparation for the evening meal slipped out. But he was back at seven forty-five and again came in. This time Mrs. Ridge introduced herself and invited him politely to await her granddaughter's return. "She's very uncertain in her hours," the old lady explained with a deprecatory little laugh, "since she has undertaken this newspaper work. It seems to keep her at the office a great deal of late...." We may leave Edgar Duncan there in the little front room, being entertained by Mrs. Ridge in her most gracious manner, while we go in search of the truant Milly. * * * * * She might have been found at an unpretentious German beer-garden far out on the North Side. Bragdon and Milly had discovered this particular retreat, which was small and secluded and usually rather empty. It seemed to Milly quite "Bohemian" to drop into the garden late in the afternoon and rouse the sleepy proprietor to fetch them cool stone mugs of foaming beer, which the artist drank and which she sipped at. On this Monday afternoon they had installed themselves in the little arbor at the remote end of the tiny garden, where they were shielded by the dusty vines from any observation, and thus the quarter hours and the halves slipped by unheeded. The artist told her again of his aspirations to paint,--"the real thing," to "go in for the big stunts." Milly listened sympathetically. That was what he should do, of course,--have a career, a man's career,--even if it parted him from her for always. All her life she had wished to be an "inspiration" in some man's life-work. What greater thing than to inspire an Artist to his glorious fulfilment?... Imperceptibly their words became more personal and more tender. He wanted to paint _her_ some day, as she had lain on the beach, with her lovely bronze hair, her wide blue eyes, and the little waves curling up towards her feet.... Dusk fell, and they forgot to eat.... At the moment when Edgar Duncan was describing to Mrs. Ridge for the second time the exact location of Arivista Ranch on the slope of the Ventura hills, Milly's head was resting close to the artist's face and very real tears were in her eyes--tears of joy--as her heart beat wildly under her lover's kisses and her ears sang with his passionate words.... For the one thing that the young artist had sworn to himself should never happen to HIM,--at any rate not until he was old and successful,--the very thing that Milly had laughed at as preposterous--"me fall in love with a poor man!"--had come to pass. Both had done it. "I shan't spoil all your future for you, shall I, dear?" she whispered, her mouth close to his. He gave her the only proper answer.... "It shan't make any difference," she said later, in a calmer moment. "You shall have your life, dear, and become a great painter." "Of course!" Youth replied robustly. "And I'll do a great picture of you!" How wonderful! How wonderful it all was, Milly thought, as they threaded their way homewards through the slovenly, garish Chicago streets, mindful of naught but themselves and their Secret. How could anything so poetically wonderful happen in workaday Chicago? And Milly thought to herself how could any woman consider for a moment sacrificing THIS--"the real, right thing"--for any bribe on earth?... As they neared the little house, Milly perceived the light in the front room and with an intuition of something unpleasant to follow dismissed her lover peremptorily, with a last daring kiss beneath the street-light, and tripped into the house. It all came over her as soon as the tall figure rose from the uncomfortable corner sofa: she knew what she had done and she was filled with real concern for the Other One. "Edgar!" she cried. "Have you been waiting long?" "Some time," Mrs. Ridge observed with reproof. "Since four forty-five," Duncan admitted, and added with a touch of sentiment. "I came fifteen minutes before the time." Milly cast a fleeting glance backward over what had happened to her since four forty-five! "But it doesn't matter now," he said with intention, "all the waiting!" Mrs. Ridge discreetly withdrew at this point. "I'm so glad to see you," Milly began lamely. "Do sit down." "I've been sitting a long time," Edgar Duncan remarked, patiently reseating himself on the stiff sofa. "I'm so sorry!" "Did you forget?" "Yes, I forgot all about it," Milly admitted bluntly. "You see so much has happened since--" "Then you didn't get my letters?" he pressed on eagerly, ignoring Milly's last words. "Oh, yes, I got all your letters," she said hastily, remembering that she had not found time or heart to open the last bulky three, which lay upstairs on her dressing-table. "Beautiful letters they were," she added sentimentally and irrelevantly, thinking, "What letters Jack will write!" It is useless to follow this painful scene in further detail. Timid as Edgar Duncan was by nature he was man enough to strike for what he wanted when he had his chance,--as he had struck manfully in those bulky letters. And he repeated their message now in simple words. "Milly, will you go back with me?... I've waited for you all my life." Touched by the pathos of this genuine feeling, Milly's eyes filled with tears and she stammered,-- "Oh, I can't--I really can't!" "Why not?" (She would have been quite willing to make the journey with him, if she might have flown straightway back to the arms of her artist lover!) "You see--it's different--I can't--" Milly could not bring herself to deal the blow. It seemed too absurd to state baldly that in twelve days a man had come into her life, whom she had never set eyes on thirteen days before, but who nevertheless had made it impossible for her to do what before that time she had looked forward to with serene content. Such things happened in books, but were ridiculous to say! "You care for some one else?" Milly nodded, and her eyes dropped tears fast. It all seemed very sad, almost tragic. She was sorry for herself as well as for him.... If he felt it inexplicable that he had not been allowed to suspect this deep attachment before, he was too much of a man to mention it. He took his blow and did not argue about it. "I'm so sorry!" Milly cried. "It had to be," he said, hastily putting out a hand to her. "I shall love you always, Milly!" (It was the thing they said in books, but in this case it sounded forlornly true.) "I'm glad I've had the chance to love you," and he was gone. Milly dropped tears all the way upstairs to her room, where she shut herself in and locked herself against family intrusion. In spite of her tears she was glad for what she had done. A woman's heart seemed to her ample justification for inconsistencies, even if it jammed other hearts on the way to its goal. It was fate, that was all,--fate that Jack Bragdon should have walked into her life just twelve days before it would have been too late. Fate is a wondrously consoling word, especially in the concerns of the heart. It absolves from personal responsibility. So Milly went to sleep, with tears still on her eyelashes, but a smile on her lips, and dreamed of her own happy fate. At last "the real, right thing" was hers! _ |
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